‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to come back in the morning to recover the—’ But Nutt was already going up the rope like a spider. There was a clanging on the other side of the great candle as the lengths of snuffer pole were dropped, and then the boy abseiled back down to his master with the hook under his arm. And now he stood there all eagerness and scrubbed (if somewhat badly dressed) efficiency. There was something almost offensive about it. And the Candle Knave wasn’t used to this. He felt obliged to take the lad down a peg, for his own good.

‘All candles in this university must be lit by long taper from a candle that still burns, boy,’ he said sternly. ‘Where did you get those matches?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir.’

‘I dare say you wouldn’t, indeed! Now tell me, boy!’

‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble, master.’

‘Your reluctance does you credit, but I insist,’ said the Candle Knave.

‘Er, they fell out of your jacket when you were climbing up, master.’

Off in the distance was one last cry: ‘The Megapode is catched!’ But around the Emperor silence listened with its mouth open.

‘You are mistaken, Nutts,’ said Smeems slowly. ‘I think you will find that one of the gentlemen must have dropped them.’

‘Ah, yes, that’s certainly what must have happened, sir. I must learn not to jump to conclusions.’

Once again, the Candle Knave had that off-balance feeling. ‘Well, then, we will say no more about it,’ was all he managed.

‘What was it that happened just then, sir?’ said Nutt.

‘Oh, that? That was all part of one of the gentlemen’s magically essential magical activities, lad. It was vital to the proper running of the world, I’ll be bound, oh yes. Could be they was setting the stars in their courses, even. It’s one of them things we have to do, you know,’ he added, carefully insinuating himself into the company of wizardry.

‘Only it looked like a skinny man with a big wooden duck strapped to his head.’

‘Ah, well, it may have looked like that, come to think of it, but that was because that’s how it looks to people like us, what are not gifted with the ocular sight.’

‘You mean it was some sort of metaphor?’

Smeems handled this quite well in the circumstances, which included being so deeply at sea with that sentence that barnacles would be attracted to his underwear. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It could be a meta for something that didn’t look so stupid.’

‘Exactly, master.’

Smeems looked down at the boy. It’s not his fault, he thought, he can’t help what he is. An uncharacteristic moment of warmth overtook him.

‘You’re a bright lad,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be head dribbler one day.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Nutt, ‘but if you don’t mind I was rather hoping for something a bit more in the fresh air, so to speak.’

‘Ah,’ said Smeems, ‘that could be a bit… tricky, as you might say.’

‘Yes, sir. I know.’

‘It’s just that there’s a lot of—well, look, it’s not me, it’s… it’s… well, you know. It’s people. You know what people are like.’

‘Yes. I know what people are like.’

Looks like a scarecrow, talks posh like one of the gentlemen, Smeems thought. Bright as a button, grubby as a turd. He felt moved to pat the little… fellow on his curiously spherical head, but desisted.

‘Best if you stay down in the vats,’ he said. ‘It’s nice and warm, you’ve got your own bedroll, and it’s all snug and safe, eh?’

To his relief the boy was silent as they walked down the passages, but then Nutt said, in a thoughtful tone of voice, ‘I was just wondering, sir… How often has the candle that never goes out… not gone out?’

Smeems bit back the stinging retort. For some reason he knew it could only build up trouble in the long run.

‘The candle that never goes out has failed to go out three times since I’ve been Candle Knave, lad,’ he said. ‘It’s a record!’

‘An enviable achievement, sir.’

‘Damn right! And that’s even with all the strangeness there’s been happening lately.’

‘Really, sir?’ said Nutt. ‘Have stranger than usual things been happening?’

‘Young… man, stranger than usual things happen all the time.’

‘One of the scullery boys told me that all the toilets on the Tesseractical floor turned into sheep yesterday,’ said Nutt. ‘I should like to see that.’

‘I shouldn’t go further than the sculleries, if I was you,’ said Smeems, quickly. ‘And don’t worry about what the gentlemen do. They are the finest minds in the world, let me tell you. If you was to ask ’em… ’ He paused, trying to think of something really difficult, like, ‘What is 864 times 316… ?’

‘273,024,’ said Nutt, not quite under his breath.

‘What?’ said Smeems, derailed.

‘Just thinking aloud, master,’ said Nutt.

‘Oh. Right. Er… Well that’s it, see? They’d have an answer for you in a brace of shakes. Finest minds in the world,’ said Smeems, who believed in truth via repetition. ‘Finest minds. Engaged in the business of the universe. Finest minds!’

‘Well, that was fun,’ said Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of the university, throwing himself into a huge armchair in the faculty’s Uncommon Room with such force that it nearly threw him out again. ‘We must do it again some time.’

‘Yes, sir. We will. In one hundred years,’ said the new Master of The Traditions smugly, turning over the pages in his huge book. He reached the crackling leaf headed Hunting the Megapode, wrote down the date and the amount of time it had taken to find the aforesaid Megapode, and signed his name with a flourish: Ponder Stibbons.

‘What is a Megapode, anyway?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, helping himself to the port.

‘A type of bird, I believe,’ said the Archchancellor, waving a hand towards the drinks trolley. ‘After me.’

‘The original Megapode was found in the under-butler’s pantry,’ said the Master of The Traditions. ‘It escaped in the middle of dinner and caused what my predecessor eleven hundred years ago called… ’ he referred to the book, ‘“a veritable heyhoe-rumbelow as all the Fellows pursued it through the college buildings with much mirth and good spirits”.’

‘Why?’ said the head of the Department of Post-Mortem Communications, deftly snatching the decanter full of good spirits as it went past.

‘Oh, you can’t have a Megapode running around loose, Doctor Hix,’ said Ridcully. ‘Anyone’ll tell you that.’

‘No, I meant why do we do it again every hundred years?’ said the head of the Department of Post-Mortem Communications[3].

The Senior Wrangler turned his face away and murmured, ‘Oh, good gods… ’

‘It’s a tradition,’ the Chair of Indefinite Studies explained, rolling a cigarette. ‘We have to have traditions.’

‘They’re traditional,’ said Ridcully. He beckoned to one of the servants. ‘And I don’t mind saying that this one has made me somewhat peckish. Can you fetch the cheeseboards one to five, please? And, um, some of that cold roast beef, some ham, a few biscuits and, of course, the pickle carts.’ He looked up. ‘Anyone want to add anything?’

‘I could toy fitfully with a little fruit,’ said the Professor of Recondite Phenomena. ‘How about you, Librarian?’

‘Ook,’ growled the figure hogging the fire.

‘Yes, of course,’ said the Archchancellor. He waved a hand at the hovering waiter. ‘The fruit trolley as well. See to it, please, Downbody. And… perhaps that new girl could bring it up? She ought to get used to the Uncommon Room.’

It was as if he had just spoken a magic spell. The room, its ceiling hazy with blue smoke, was suddenly awash with a sort of heavy, curiously preoccupied silence mostly due to dreamy speculation, but in a few rare cases owing to distant memory.

The new girl… At the mere thought, elderly hearts beat dangerously.